


To Reach a Heaven That's Shut to Me

by beyonces_fiancee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Poetry, Robert Browning - Freeform, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, elizabeth barrett browning - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyonces_fiancee/pseuds/beyonces_fiancee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven stories adapted from the poems of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and from the BBC show <i>Sherlock</i>. Updates Sundays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Last Duchess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem "My Last Duchess," by Robert Browning, can be found in its entirety [here](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173024).

On the right here, my charming little collection of etchings. Rather mouth-watering, are they not? Based on life. If you knew the true identity of that luscious slattern pictured in the foreground... a word to the wise will suffice... but that is a story for another time. And just across, in the alcove, a bust of the dowager Viscountess of Smallwood. She won her place in my collection by the touching devotion she showed to her husband. Ah, and—just a moment—here you can see a rare jewel indeed. Sherlock Holmes, painted by Roed himself at the height of his mastery. I sought his services upon his return from Italy, at no small coin, too; but do see the fortunate result...

Yes, it is quite wonderfully lifelike, isn't it? Observe the anger, the remorse barely concealed in his eyes. I often come up to this wing of the house just to look it over for half an hour together. And certainly, it is not to any common visitor I reveal this little morsel. Do tell your master that if he wishes to see the picture for himself, I will be delighted to draw back the curtain before his lordship's gaze.

Ah, you might well ask. Not an eye travels across this countenance without inquiring, just as you have done, whence the expression of flushed and mingled emotions so artfully captured by the portraitist's hand. Quite simply, Mr. Holmes did not wish to sit for the picture; therefore, he glowers, he bristles, and perhaps, to the educated observer, within he weeps. And how, any visitor infallibly asks, do I come to own a portrait of a man who does not wish to sit for a portrait? And who is this man? No, no, have the goodness not to apologize for asking an obvious question. I enjoy telling the story. The expression "private detective" does not quite delve into the intimacy of our... relationship. To be perfectly frank, he was my tame bloodhound. I first encountered him when compiling information on his upright brother; it was a positive boon to identify the pariah of the family. Cocaine, of course, and occasionally morphia, among other vices, the naughty thing. But he chose to wear that particular collar, and he chose to hand the lead to me, in exchange for his deductive services. A terribly useful man to own in my line of work. 

Of course, he had formed quite a habit for the drug, after a while. He was such a careless boy. Very much prone to mental degeneracy, sentimentality—in short, weakness of character. I do not know whether this was a cause or a result of what followed, but in any case, he promptly revealed his true nature to me, which knowledge can only be an asset to a man in my position. He had a heart too soon, one might say, made glad, too easily impressed. And by one funny little man in particular... That ineffectual little doctor. Oh, what a soft belly he had, in the end.

No, the man was not his general practitioner—he was a soldier, too. You do not catch my meaning? Have you not then heard of the exploits of Holmes and his pet Watson? The mad derring-do, the dashes after petty criminals all across London, clutching one another's lapels in their exhausted excitement. Quite the heart-warming pair, those two. He and his doctor were not to be parted on any account, despite the latter's undeniable intellectual deficiencies. The little fellow hardly spoke, and when he did it was to say "I don't understand." But love, you know, is dreadfully habit-forming. One of the many weaknesses of my dear Mr. Holmes.

It goes without saying, though, that a valuable instrument cannot be permitted to lose its edge, however natural the process is. A master craftsman—I do not think this too outlandish a boast—maintains his tools in perfect working order by any means necessary. And perfect order is the result of perfect control. The whet-stone and the water jug; the cocaine and the doctor. When the one fails to achieve results, apply the threat of losing the other. Judiciously, of course, with a tender hand. Thus the principle of all civilized business. You might do well to remember that.

His value unfortunately suffered a gradual decline throughout the time of his service to me. He resumed the consumption of narcotics other than those I supplied to him, perhaps with the thought of breaking the back of his habitual reliance. Foolish, certainly. These drug-takers do become absolute slaves to their habits, and it has a terrible effect on the constitution. And one cannot count on maintaining the edge for too long. One grows weary of stooping to explain one's wishes and the consequences of failure. It was during this period of my dissatisfaction, I believe, that Mr. Holmes sat for his portrait. He doubtless missed his pet. Applying pressure at the correct location, simply to observe the requisite helpless squirming and dangling, has its own delicious reward, but I cannot be always thinking of pleasure; there is business to which I must attend.

And talking of business, my good man, shall we rejoin the throng? Do give me a moment to close the curtain. Your master no doubt wishes to confer with me on the matter of the dowry for his lovely daughter's hand. I am quite confident he will reveal himself to be a generous soul; I have no doubt he is a man who understands the fulcrum and the lever, and the principles of control.


	2. Porphyria's Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Porphyria's Lover," by Robert Browning, can be found in its entirety [here](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175584).

The storm had made of the night a bitter cold thing. I listened with heart fit to break: the open door, hammering with the wind against the wall, the driving rain sinking its claws deep in the churned earth. The elms creaked piteously, lashed down by the roots, moaning from trunk to twig-tip. And a roar of lightning framed him stark, illuminated on the threshold—Sherlock.

In he swept, collar turned ear-high, muffled by his scarf against the cold. I knew that his sharp eyes missed no detail of the scene, the papers blown around the room, a crust of cold black ash in the blackened grate. The single taper, guttered, now a waxen puddle on the floor. But Sherlock spoke not one word nor looked at me. His was a methodical mind, that dealt with small solutions before addressing more uncertain things. Straightway he shut the door, to shut out the hastening rain and deaden the yowl of the storm. Down he knelt before the grate, his every rustle audible in the sudden quiet, and laid the fire in perfect order; and under his clever fingers the yellow flames sprang up.

This done, he doffed the country hat he wore, hanging it on a hook. He shed the damp black bulk of his long greatcoat and, at long last, hesitant, came to sit beside me. With his long hand he took mine up, and called me by my name.

"James?"

The fire crackled softly.

When no answer made reply, his fingers tightened over mine. He drew me suddenly to him and made a place to lay my head upon his shoulder. And with his great black coat o'er all he covered me, and held me to his breast.

He had come, despite his reservations and restraint and all his selfish plans, through rain and howling wind, he had come, despite all this, to me. And so looked I up at him, rejoicing incredulous, not daring to speak. Much, much more than passing sport for me this had become. At last, at last, wholly within my grasp, my sweet seraph was mine for ever. I knew then that Sherlock worshipped me.

I found my heart so full with him, I knew not what to do; I trembled to think of the possibilities that were mine. For so long he had fought passion with reason, resisted that which he knew his heart desired, and all for the sake of his overweening pride. But he had cast aside this weakness and given himself to one who needed him. I touched his throat, and stroked his rain-wet face, and kissed the freezing lips that bent to mine. They grew warm with blood beneath my fond caress. No king nor country nor well-beloved friend could keep him from my hands.

His scarf was draped in hanging folds about his neck. Its tassels' brush against my cheek filled me with a sudden fancy. I clutched each end of the dark blue wool, and pulled him close to kiss his mouth again, and pulled, and pulled, and strangled him. His open mouth was breathing short and harshly into mine. I kissed and kissed him, gasping, sinking. I am quite sure he felt no pain; ordinary men, those fools who quail at any hardship, would hardly understand the heights toward which we greater men must reach. The red buttonhole on his left lapel was just above his heart; it pleased me greatly to put my finger through, and see it wriggling and alive against the bright red thread. His scarf had half its tassels torn where I had pulled it.

"Does this trouble you, dearest?" I unwound the scarf, fold by fold, and tossed it to the floor. His tumbling curls I swept back from his brow, hand over hand, till his face lay bare before me. Then cautiously, with two finger-tips, I spread his eyelids open, one and then the other. His angelic eyes were fair as ever, grey-blue as any new sage-flower, shaded round with delicate dark lashes. Out on the world they gazed just as before, and seemed to smile as I took his body into my embrace.

"I was more than half afraid you should not come," I murmured into his hair. "You know these peculiar humors into which I sometime sink... I should never have doubted you, my pet. You have never failed me yet."

And for all his cleverness, my darling Sherlock never could have guessed with what solicitous concern I would gratify his one unspoken wish. His head drooped now onto my shoulder, unashamed to bear witness to our love made flesh—what contrast to his hubris of latter days! The burning tears rose in my eyes as I thought of it, and I wept for joy, with great painful sobs that half choked me beneath the weight of his love for me.

It is coming on to morning now; the fire is low and fading red, my kisses do not raise such a blush on his cold cheek as once they did, but for no thing on earth or heaven would I leave his side. And here we sit together still, careless of pride and all other vanities, bound together in love eternally, and yet God has not said a word!


End file.
